


Like Red Wine and Honey

by daggerpen



Series: Honeyverse [1]
Category: Batman (Comics), DCU, DCU - Comicverse, Green Arrow
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-02
Updated: 2012-11-02
Packaged: 2017-11-17 14:17:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/552465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daggerpen/pseuds/daggerpen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jason Todd, Connor Hawke, and a series of encounters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Red Wine and Honey

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for: references to drug abuse, violence, minor blood.
> 
>  
> 
> A/N: Well, since Connor doesn’t look like he’ll be in the DCnU anytime soon, this fic is kind of sort of halfway based in the preboot DCU. And by kind of sort of I mean that Jason’s post-Countdown canon doesn't count and some of the Arrow canon have been tweaked, even if it won't be much mentioned unless I write sequels. (Hint: it involves Lian)
> 
> One other note: to head off your inevitable run to the DC Wiki, none of the villains appearing here are canon characters. The Araiza part does references the “Like a God” arc from GA V2 issues 132 & 133, though.

_~When you came, you were like red wine and honey, and the taste of you burnt my mouth with its sweetness.~_

-Amy Lowell

*******

It starts with a team-up, if it can even be called that. Jason’s been causing trouble in Gotham again for a month or so when he runs across Bradley Araiza. Drug lord and self-styled chemist, he'd been a blot on Star City for a while, specializing in his own fashionable, wildly dangerous designer drugs. Did well for himself, too- had the money to buy his way out of half the charges actually filed and the connections to get himself out of the rest, leaving the best efforts of the Arrows useless.

Of course, no amount of money'll do him much good back home after all the shit with Star City. Plenty of product, but no one to buy. No real surprise he and his cronies have set their sights on Gotham instead.

No real surprise that Jason's got a problem with that, either. Not when his new "Might" product has killed dozens already, half of them kids.

The second Green Arrow doesn’t hold any particular interest for him, but he needs someone who knows this guy, and of all the Arrows, he figures Hawke’s the one easiest to find and least likely to shoot on sight.

He’s right there, it turns out, though not quite for the reasons he’d expected. Apparently, the archer- or no-longer-archer- has some sort of memory loss or whatever, and no idea who the Red Hood is. Or how the hell to use that bow of his, or a million other things.

"I'm not really Green Arrow anymore," he explains to the masked vigilante sitting unannounced in his hotel room with surprising calm. "I've mostly just been traveling for a while."

"Done with the 'hero' bullshit?"

"Not really. I mean, I still patrol sometimes. But being Green Arrow when I can't even shoot? It doesn't feel right. I'm not the Green Arrow. I'm just... me. Whoever that is."

'You can't help, then?"

"I'm not sure. I know some things. I've been getting it back, in bits and pieces, but it's... really fragmented."

Fragmented. (He knows what that’s like.)

"Remember anything about a Bradley Araiza?" 

"Araiza? … No. Nothing at all. I'm sorry." He's genuinely apologetic. Jason resists the urge to groan- this was his best lead- but Connor's not done. "Who is he? Maybe I know someone who can help."

"Big drug guy. Sells designer stuff, mostly to club kids and rich idiots. His new product, though? 'S called 'Might'. Gives you temporary superpowers, which ones vary person to person. Except it fucks the system up but good- there've been cases of people dying when they come off it, or frying their brains or turning them into vegetables or something like that. Addictive as fuck if it doesn't, too, plus the usual drug effects. Nasty shit."

Connor blanches slightly. "Who would do something like that to themselves?"

"For superpowers? Plenty of people. People so rich they're bored of everything, dumb teenagers, not to mention criminals and the generally desperate- underestimate the mental effects, put down the cash for a dose and go bust up a bank? Been a dozen already who thought it was a good plan.” Jason shrugs. “No shortage of stupid from the rich and the desperate, I guess. Should I take this to mean this isn't ringing any bells?"

Connor is silent for a few moments. "... actually... I think it just might be. Let me make some calls."

*******

As it happens, the lead checks out. Blind luck is on their side- one of the old friends Connor had visited during his little soul-searching trip had happened to mention some old research on an alien substance with similar effects a while back, and has noticed some suspicious activity in the records as of late, knows some people to ask further. Two hours and five phone calls later, and they're on their way.

_They._

"Of course I'm coming! I told you I'd help," Connor says mildly. "And we need to get this guy." Okay, so he’d misjudged just how ‘retired’ the blonde really was.

Which is just a little inconvenient. "You can't even shoot."

"I can still fight, don't worry."

"I was expecting to do this alone."

"But now you don't have to."

Jason can't tell if he's stubborn or just that oblivious. Probably both. “I want to do this alone.”

“Why?”

Because... why? He’s probably going to kill Araiza? For all their issues, the Arrows seem to have gotten a lot less uptight about that, and after the bullshit with Prometheus, Jason’s starting to think even Connor might not mind. Because he doesn’t want to take the chance that he’ll prove dumber about it than the rest of his ‘family’? That, yes. Because he doesn’t need a helping hand here? … that, too. But mostly, it’s that Connor’s still an unknown quantity. His plans already go south often enough he doesn’t need a new variable.

Except that Connor is still talking. "Besides, this all sounds... really familiar. I think it's something to do with my past."

... damn him. _Damn_ him. Jason... knows what it's like, that frustrating itch of familiarity. His memory's not nearly that bad, but...

"... just don't get in my way."

*******

There's a meet set up at the docks next week, feel out a potential buyer. The two make sure to be there.

Jason’s the first to strike, of course. Only one with a long range weapon, after all. Spray of bullet fire, not really trying to hit anyone in particular- spook and scatter, send them running for cover and make them easier to pick off. Connor swoops in before Jason can even toss the empty gun, taking out 2 of the buyers’ bodyguards in a single move. Jason’s hot on his heels, driving his boot into the face of a lieutenant who was trying to escape before joining Connor’s fray.

They fight well together. More than that, Connor just fights well.- better’n Jason, much as he hates to admit it. The combination gets them pretty damn far, lets them take down maybe half the guys there before the real force shows up.

“Move!” Connor calls suddenly, and Jason’s just in time to avoid getting his head taken off by some overly muscled goon. There are maybe 7 others, all masked, all with physiques just as grotesquely exaggerated.

There’s no real experience in the way they fight, not even the cheap brawling he sees from the usual idiots on the street. Loping gait, distorted body, erratic movement, dilated pupils in the eyes that can still be seen, and, of course, superpowers in spades- pretty clear what that means.

“They’ve been drugged!” Connor calls out.

Thank you, Captain Obvious.

So Araiza hadn’t even bothered with some trained bodyguards, huh? Just found some idiots stupid enough to agree and pumped them up with Might. Or had they been here for demonstration, show off Araiza’s ‘genius’ to potential customers? Doesn’t matter either way, of course- they go down just as hard.

And it _is_ hard, enough so that Jason’s almost grateful for the backup. The bullets aren’t doing much against the brutes, and hand to hand even less. Attacking the joints is a bit more effective- Jason manages to take one down with a few well-placed knife strikes, only to find that the next one’s got invulnerability with his powerset. He dives out of the way, darts around as he considers new tactics.

And gets bowled over by Connor as the man is literally thrown 10 feet through the air by the one he’d been fighting.

Well, shit. Jason hauls himself up, glancing down at Connor, and-

He’s just lying there. There’s blood from his head, soaking into the hair-

_(A flash of silver, pain-)_

Breathe. Pull it together. Jason clenches his fists momentarily before stepping in to guard the other’s unconscious figure, firing a wild spray of fire at the equally wild advancing men. It does about as much as he’d expected.

This isn’t working. Shit, this isn’t working and now Connor is-

\- back on his feet and lunging at the nearest figure. What the-

There’s no trace of the injury now, nothing but some matted, bloodstained hair to prove Jason hadn’t just imagined the whole thing.

(If he isn’t still imagining it.)

Unnerved, he shakes himself, and moves back into the fray opposite his now recovered ally. Kick to the throat, yank his leg free from the death grip on his ankle. Bullet to the knee, avoid the ricochet as it bounces off temporarily hardened skin. Knife to the stomach, why did he even bother. Taser to the chest...

… oh, _there_ it is. Two down, six to go, unless Connor’s managed to take some down, himself. He glances over just in time to see Connor convulse, arcs of electricity shooting from the hand on his wrist- shit, one of them got more than strength and durability? - and fires a shot at the assailant’s hand.

This one, apparently, didn’t get the full invulnerability. Jason absently puts a bullet through his kneecap- no idea how durable he is, better to immobilize than to go for a kill shot that might not even take- as he heads over to check on Connor...

… except, once again, the blonde is already on his feet, aiming an uppercut to the thug who’d been advancing on him, and Jason _knows_ he didn’t imagine this one.

“You have a healing factor?!” he calls over the commotion as he engages one of the other drugged-up attackers, aiming an ineffective slash at his chest.

“Didn’t I tell you?!” he responds over a kick to his own opponent’s leg.

“No! I thought you were baseline?!” Another one vulnerable to the taser. Good.

“Not since the coma!” Connor calls back, managing to disable the other with a few well-placed pressure point strikes. Jason’s response is cut off by a blow to the back of the head, sending him staggering and shards cascading down from the now shattered remnants of his helmet.

“... are you wearing a mask under your mask?” Connor calls over his newest battle.

“It’s a long story!” he says, blindly firing behind him with one hand as he brushes helmet fragments from his hair and face. The locking mechanisms had, of course, disengaged after the massive damage, and the two remaining halves fall to the ground.

He’s pretty sure he has helmet chunks down the back of his jacket. It’s irritating.

No time to dwell on it, though- the brute behind him’s back up, lumbering towards him with surprising speed. Jason can’t quite avoid as the masked man seizes him by the collar, lifting him bodily and throwing him a few feet across the ground. His landing almost approaches graceful, if you squint.

Connor, meanwhile, has finished up with his opponent and has moved onto the last one, who seems to have gotten telekinetic powers if the way Connor’s being thrown around without the guy even touching him’s any indication. Jason’s not sure if that makes him feel better or worse about his own battle, especially when his own assailant appears out of nowhere to aim a punch at his chest.

As Jason doubles over, coughing and gasping for breath, he comes to the conclusion that this one has superspeed.

It’s a damn hard battle. The strikes come seemingly out of nowhere, faster than his eye can follow, in quick enough succession to keep him disoriented. If it weren’t for the mental effects of the drug, Jason would probably be dead already, or at least unconscious, the other pressing his advantage in terms of speed. As is, the blows are erratic, poorly placed, and after the third or fourth time he manages to take cover for a handful of seconds.

He needs a plan. He’s got no idea just how durable this one is, hadn’t seen him take or shrug off any bullets specifically, but none of that matters if he can’t find a way to trip him up. Hit him with a bolo? Only an option if he stays still long enough, a pretty tall order at the moment. Set up a tripwire? Might be a better plan, but with what material? He has his grapple gun, he can probably jury-rig something from that...

Except that the other’s behind him once more, striking him with enough force to send him flying into the crates he’d sheltered behind, sending them spilling every which way.

Yeah, he’s going to feel that one in the morning.

Punch to the ribs. Kick to the legs. A hand on his collar, his arm, his neck, dragging him this way and that, sending him skidding and staggering across the asphalt.

This isn’t going well. At all. He needs something, anything...

“Cover your eyes!” he calls in warning to the archer, and moves. He throws the flashbombs down more out of desperation than any real strategy.

In retrospect, it should have been a fairly obvious solution. Fighting an opponent that disoriented, with pupils dilated to boot? The bright light blinds the other almost completely, his assailant stumbling around wildly, staggering in random directions with misplaced bursts of speed before tripping over himself. He can’t recover before Jason is by his side, shoving the taser to his chest. The temporary speedster goes out like a light.

One left. He turns.

Connor doesn’t look like he’s been doing any better than Jason. Hard to tell, with the other’s healing factor, but if he’s been getting thrown around like that all this time, he can’t even have gotten near the telekinetic. Even the flashbomb’s blinding effects don’t seem to have helped, the thug just blindly sending out waves of force. Jason’s sent staggering by a stray attack.

Okay. Time to regroup. It looks like the telekinesis is, at least, entirely voluntary, no automatic shielding. If they split up, one of them might be able to work their way around the back unnoticed, take him down...

“Wait, where’s Araiza?” Connor calls suddenly, bracing himself against a fresh wave of force.

He blinks. “What?” Jason glances around to see... absolutely no one where their target had previously been cornered. “Shit! We lost him!”

“Where’d he go?”

“I don’t know!” He dives low as their opponent gestures again, feeling the air shifting above his head. Okay, so his attacks are focused. Good to know. “His car! They’re parked a few blocks away, right? Avoid suspicion? I’d bet anything he’s going there!”

“One of us needs to stop him!” Connor calls back.

Jason pushes himself up. “Then go!”

“Are you sure? I-”

“You’re faster than I am right now, and I have all the long-range stuff. Go!”

“If you’re sure you can handle him.”

“I’ll be fine. _Go_!”

Connor moves, sprinting fluidly around the corner and out of sight. Jason sets himself into a fighting stance.

He is very, very fucked.

It doesn’t help that his opponent’s eyesight has obviously recovered now. The strikes are focused, directed, knocking Jason back and sending the air from his lungs.

What the hell does he do now?

Aside from dodging, of course. Jason dives once again for cover as a series of invisible blows strike him, setting his already bruised and cracked ribs on fire with pain.

Okay. Might doesn’t have a particularly long duration. Maybe 15 minutes, give or take. How long ago had these guys taken their doses? How long had the fight been going on? He’s got to start winding down soon.

There’s no one else around. What will this guy do if he just leaves, or hides somewhere he can’t find him? Will he stop and watch the pretty colors like a good little drugged-up goon, or rampage until the damn stuff finally wears off? Not like there’s much around to damage, and Araiza and Connor are gone. Taking the better part of valor is looking increasingly attractive here.

Of course, that means actually getting away from the tripping temporary meta who’s apparently intent on nothing but grinding him to dust. Jason half wonders just what’s going through his head, for him to be this focused on him. Is he lucid enough to know Jason is a target, or just lashing out at the scary monsters? The former’s looking pretty likely. What’s that say about his chances of just waiting it out? Jason darts towards the nearby warehouse, sending a quick spray of bullets at his opponent. No dice- either the telekinesis is blocking it, or he got increased durability with it. Fuck.

Okay. He’s still got his taser. No reason it shouldn’t work on this guy, if he can just get close enough. Still has a central nervous system, doesn’t he? He just has to get close enough. All he needs is to get around back, near enough for a strike.

Easier said than done. Jason moves to circle around, darting this way and that in an attempt to lose him.

“You know, this would be a lot easier if you’d cooperate!”

… bantering’s not really as much fun when your opponent can’t react. Jason tosses down a smokebomb in lieu of a follow-up comment, rolling it towards the meta. Thick, gray gas fills the area, shielding him from view. He doesn’t waste any time before darting in, moving around towards where his assailant’s back was the last time he could see.

The distraction has mixed results. On the one hand, the telekinetic obviously has no idea where he is, striking erratically in all directions. On the other hand, the telekinetic obviously has no idea where he is, striking erratically in all directions. Jason can hear crates toppling around them, sending their contents spilling onto the battleground, unseen obstacles between him and his target. Avoiding the blows, at least, is easier now; the thug’s powers seem to work by sending directed force waves away from him, which has the effect of leaving long clear trails in the smoke surrounding them. If the guy was thinking clearly, he’d use that to clear the smoke away and reveal Jason once again.

He isn’t, of course. Jason almost manages to get in close before a stray attack clips the side of his head, sending him reeling.

… it’s weaker than the ones before. Significantly. Jason’d been right; he’s on his last legs now.

That’ll make things easier.

Experimentally, Jason sends a short burst of fire around where the other’s feet should be- less rebound if he’s wrong. The other roars with pain.

Jackpot. If his opponent’s still standing, he’s far from mobile now. Jason just has to-

The next blow sends the gun flying from his hand, lost in the smoke.

Well, shit. He starts to fumble for another one, but there are more attacks now, their lack of force more than made up for by the sheer volume of blows. Jason staggers, arms flying up to protect himself as well as he can.

It doesn’t really do much against the punch that connects with his jaw, sending stars behind his eyes.

Okay. Okay. So the guy’s in close now, too blinded by his drug-and-pain-fueled confusion to press his long-range advantage. Jason returns with a blow of his own, able to make out the silhouette of his attacker through the quickly-dissipating smoke.

They trade a few blows as the thick haze finally clears, Jason’s comparatively precise strikes hitting home through the other’s waning durability. A knee to the stomach. A punch to the chest. The other is fading now, his retaliatory moves weaker and weaker. Seeing an opening, Jason aims his own punch straight across the other’s jaw.

The sole remaining attacker sways on his feet, and collapses. Finally, the blows end.

And the moaning begins. Pained, weakened, physiques twisting and deflating, the assorted thugs are finally coming down off their newest high, and feeling at last the aftereffects of their boss’s ‘genius’. Jason takes the chance to collapse, himself, sitting on the ground and breathing heavily with too-often cigarette-abused lungs.

That had been close. He wonders how Connor’s doing- probably a hell of a lot better than him, considering. Araiza’s hardly a combat expert, and with the healing factor the blonde apparently has, he’s probably in as good condition as when he started the fight. Jason wonders why he let the other vigilante go after the scumbag after all.

Groaning, Jason pushes himself up, muscles aching as the adrenaline high subsides. Should he try to catch up to Connor and Araiza? He’s not in much of a condition to run, and there’s no telling where they got off to after all this time. Should he make sure the thugs are down properly? They don’t look like they’ll be getting up anytime soon, he decides as he walks- okay, limps- over to the last to fall.

He looks downright scrawny, now that the effects of the Might have worn off. On impulse, Jason pulls off the mask... and takes a step back, swearing.

He can’t be older than 17. Obviously not the usual muscle, either. Probably some homeless kid, maybe an addict looking for a fix, maybe a kid just desperate enough for food to agree to whatever deal Araiza offered him. Maybe even a Might addict already, promised a steady supply of the drug to act as muscle, cheap superpowered thugs with some experience dealing with the effects.

He looks around, examining the others with growing rage. Some of them are older. Some of them have track marks. But they’re not really much different. Pale, emaciated, weak and broken, maybe from the drug or maybe just before, it doesn’t really matter.

No shortage of stupid from the rich and the desperate.

Footsteps. Jason wheels around to see Araiza running back towards the scene, Connor hot on his heels. It’s a smart move; drive the target towards your partner if you can’t subdue him right away. If they’re in any condition to fight, you’ve got automatic back-up; if not, you’re there to bail them out, without losing the target.

By the warehouse now. Araiza glances around wildly, searching for yet another escape route. Jason turns slowly, expression blank as he fixes his eyes on him. Connor advances on him, close enough to intercept him wherever he flees. No place to run.

“I’ve got him!” he calls.

Bradley Araiza has only been in Gotham for a few weeks now. New kid in town, doesn't know much about the Red Hood. Doesn’t know his history. Doesn’t know his skills.

Doesn’t know his policy towards people who fuck with kids.

Araiza turns his eyes back towards the man in front of him, then sighs and slowly raises his hands, a gesture of surrender. "Well. I know when I've lost."

Jason shoots the bastard in the chest.

*******

Connor, as it turns out, is a little less than happy. Araiza survives after all, as do the guys he’d suckered into playing drugged attack dog, but somehow, that doesn't seem to satisfy the Arrow.

Jason is almost surprised. Should've known better. Just because he’d heard rumors some of the Arrows weren’t so uptight about killing anymore, didn’t mean he should’ve expected any better from the idealistic moron, however well they’d fought together.

(He's a little disappointed.)

“I trusted you,” Connor says, and Jason almost laughs.

“Yeah? To do what, exactly? Keep your secrets? Have your back in a fight? Pretty sure I did just that.”

“You tried to kill him! He was surrendering, and you attacked him! You tried to _use_ me to kill him!”

“Fun fact, Blondie- I didn't ask you to get involved. Hell, I’m pretty sure I told you to fuck off about a dozen times. I never _used_ you for shit.” He shakes his head. “What, did you think I’d just let him go after that? Did I ever tell you I was planning to let him live? Don’t give me that ‘trust’ bullshit. I never lied to you. You _assumed_.”

“You asked me for information, you let me think-”

“I didn’t _let_ you think anything! Only fucking reason I let you come along was I thought your ‘family’ had the guts to fucking do what was necessary! And trust me, whatever you idiots all think, sometimes, it's _necessary_."

"Yes, but it wasn't _this_ time! He was _surrendering_! We _had_ him!"

"We _had_ jack shit! Do you know how many judges he's got in his pocket? What the 'justice' system is like? What _Gotham_ is like?” Jason shakes his head. “He would've just gotten away with it. _Will_ just get away with it. _Again_."

"You don't know that'll happen."

"I'm not taking that chance."

"You're not _giving_ it a chance! The law is supposed to take care of this."

"The law's had its chance! It failed! How the hell many more people, how many more _kids_ you going to let die or get fucking _maimed_ because no one put him down when they could?!"

“There was no imminent danger!” Connor clenches his fists. “You weren’t even planning to let him have a _trial_! You were just killing as a first resort!”

“So what? You think scum like him deserves a second fucking chance?”

“ _Everyone_ deserves a second chance!”

“Bullshit. What, ‘everyone deserves a second chance’? You think their _victims_ don’t deserve a _first_ chance? You think psychopaths like the fucking _Joker_ deserve a _second chance_?”

“You’re twisting the issue. You’re making it sound like there’s no option between killing them and doing nothing to stop them. This guy wasn’t the Joker.”

“Might as well have been. Deserved a bullet just as much.”

“No one _deserves_ to be killed. Sometimes there’s no choice, but there was _this time_. There almost _always_ is.”

Jason’s expression darkens slightly. “Wonder how many new victims’ve been made, all those times you let the wrong guy go.”

For a second, Connor looks like he wants to scream. “You-” He shakes his head. “I don’t _believe_ you. You lied to me-”

“I never lied to-”

“You tried to kill a man who was _surrendering_ -”

“Who _successfully_ killed dozens of people-”

“You tried to make me a party to murder-”

“Funny, I seem to remember you volunteering.”

Connor’s lips thin. “I would _never_ have helped you if I knew you’d do something like this.”

Jason’s own expression flickers. “Then maybe you should do some goddamn _research_ before you agree to team up with someone.”

He doesn't give Connor the chance to respond before he leaves. Connor doesn't try to stop him.

That's the last they see of each other for a while.

*******

When Jason shows up again, he’s not looking to team up- really, he doubts the ex-archer’ll ever agree to work with him again after their last encounter. Besides which, strange connections or not, this one’s a lot more personal than some drug-running scumbag. He won’t interfere. The pacifist idiot’s annoying as fuck, but Jason’s got that much respect for him, for some reason. No, this time, he’s just looking to pass along some information, and not really expecting a particularly warm reception.

He’s kind of right, considering the glare the blonde shoots him when, once more, he turns up in the middle of his hotel room, sprawled across the couch with his gun at his waist and folders in his hand. For Connor, that’s probably about the height of iciness.

“What do you want?” he asks coldly. The tone doesn’t suit him.

“What, that’s it?” he asks. “No ‘Hello, Jason,’ ‘Nice to see you, Jason,’ ‘You were right and I’m an idiot, Jason,’ ‘I don’t actually want you here but I’m too polite to say it, so I’m just going to sit here and passively-aggressively glare at you, Ja-’”

"I looked you up," Connor cuts in abruptly. When Jason doesn't respond, he continues, "I know about Mia. I know about Tim. I know about all the people you’ve killed."

Jason hesitates for a fraction of a second, then shrugs loosely, apparently unconcerned. "Looks like you _can_ do research, after all."

"Why?"

"Going to have to be more specific."

"Why go after them? Why go after Mia? Why any of this?"

"Why do you care?"

"Because I thought you were a hero."

Jason’s lips twitch into a flicker of a sneer. "Well then. I guess you thought wrong, didn't you?"

Connor closes his eyes briefly, hand twitching into a fist, and Jason momentarily wonders if he’s actually close to provoking the archer enough to attack him. When his eyes open again, though, Connor’s expression is just frustrated. "Why are you even here?" he snaps. Jason throws him the file, and the other opens the folder like he doesn't quite trust it.

Until he sees the first picture. Jason _knows_ he remembers this guy, because the darkest expression Jason's ever seen him wear flits across the blonde's features.

" _Milo_."

"He's been stirring up trouble in Gotham again. Tried to set up a gun buy with one of my informants. Thought you might want to know. If you can stand my company long enough to listen, of course."

Connor doesn’t rise to the bait. "When did he get out of jail? And how?"

"Last week. Deal with the DA." Jason's silent for a beat. "Doesn't waste any time, does he?"

Connor ignores him, leafing through the file. Jason shrugs, pushing himself up and stretching idly.

"I'll leave him to you, then."

 _That_ gets a reaction. "Why?"

"What, you're surprised? Think I’d have told you anything if I was planning to just off him?" He shrugs loosely. "Bastard went after your mother, right? Guy's not enough of a threat I'd take that from you. He's yours. Do whatever you want. Try to turn him back in to your precious _system_ , even."

And they’re back to ‘not even dignifying that with a response’ territory. Rolling his eyes, Jason turns to leave.

"Thank you," Connor says abruptly, and it's Jason's turn to be surprised.

He doesn't know how to respond to that one.

He doesn’t. Jason leaves without another word. He's done what he came for.

He never does get the full details, but Armitage is out of Gotham within the week, probably before the Bats even realize he's there. Jason's almost impressed.

*******

It’s months before the next meeting, this one pure chance. It’s Connor who comes to him, this time, his little “soul-searching” trip having brought him across the self-styled "Bad News Crew," and that way to the city.

Jason’s after them, too. They’re the big new thing in town, cutting in on drugs and gun buys and generally kicking up enough noise to drown out a death metal concert. Of course he was going to start investigating.

He wasn’t really expecting to get himself shot, though. That'd been a bit of a curveball.

In his defense, he'd been trying to shove their target du jour, some idiot journalist too nosy for his own good, out of the way. Judging by the hastily-fleeing figure bolting for the door in the corner of his eye, that was at least one mission accomplished.

It’s not anything that bad. Bullet barely hits anything too important, except for, well, nicking an artery. Not severed, or he'd be pretty fucked, but nicked. Not _too_ bad.

If he can get a damn bandage soon, he won't bleed to death, and that's all that's important.

Except, of course, for how it makes it damn hard to walk, something that puts more than a small snag in his whole "not dying again" plan. Staring down the barrel of a sawed-off shotgun, Jason's just about to initiate plan b- throw down a smokebomb and hope like hell he can hook his grapple onto something in the chaos- when his would-be rekiller goes down cursing, an arrow through his wrist. It doesn't take him long to spot its source, in all his suspendered glory.

"You can shoot again," he comments lightly, one hand pressed heavily to the ragged, profusely bleeding wound in his leg.

"I've been practicing," the other responds, equally casual, before springing into action. He watches for a handful of seconds before turning his attention to his injury. Jason's not too proud to admit the once-again archer is a little better equipped to handle these guys at the moment. He's got a heavilybleeding leg to deal with now.

He has the equipment for a passable field dressing, of course. Gets about halfway done while he keeps an eye on the fight. Coagulant foam to stop the bleeding, which'll do the job well enough, if he doesn't move. He gets out the dressing to finish the job, which shouldgive him at least limited mobility, and starts on that.

But now the archer's dealing with a shotgun himself, barrel level with his eyes. Jason's not too sure how his healing factor deals with head wounds, but, well, wasn't head trauma how the amnesiac had gotten into that mess in the first place? Time to return a favor.

The assailant goes down with a bullet to the knee. Jason staggers, leg screaming with pain and head buzzing. Standing had been a bad idea. Definitely not worth the better angle it'd given him.

And now he's bleeding again. A lot.

The coag foam had been dislodged when he stood, he realizes vaguely. Probably took a bit of the vein with it, widened the hole.

Jason half-collapses back to the ground. The room goes a little weird at the edges.

Why didn't he just take the goddamned headshot when he had it?

The archer is back at his side in seconds, examining his leg. Jason dimly notes the blonde's second assailant on the ground back over by the rest.

"Are you okay?" Connor asks.

"Bleeding out," he manages. "Need- need-"

He's interrupted by a burst of gunfire.

Oh. Looks like at least one of the idiot's recovered.

"We need to get out of here," Connor says. He can't really find it in him to protest as the archer hauls him up and makes for the door.

Jason can see Batman and Robin in the distance just before the world fades to black.

*******

He comes to in what appears to be a semi-decent apartment, lying on top of a surprisingly soft comforter.

"Are you awake?" asks a by-now familiar voice, and Jason turns his head to see the speaker.

"Still out cold.” Jason pushes himself up slightly, then stops as he feels the bolt of pain from his leg. “Where are we?"

"Parkview."

He blinks, taking a few seconds to process the name. "... the hotel? You took me back to your hotel room?"

"Yes?"

" _Why_?"

"You were bleeding, and I didn't think you wanted to go to the hospital." He pauses awkwardly. "You had bandages."

"But why bother? Could've just left me for the capes."

He's silent for a moment. "You risked your life to save mine," he says, as though there’s something significant about that.

"So? Not like we didn’t already fight together earlier, before you got your spandex in a twist about Araiza. If this’s some type of misplaced sense of debt, then thanks for the save, but you don't owe me anything."

“You’re not a bad guy,” Connor says abruptly, like he’s been holding the words back for a while.

Jason wonders if it’s the blood loss messing with him, or if Connor’s really making this little sense. “What?”

“After everything that happened with Araiza, I thought you were just some killer who’d been using me. And then when I started researching you... I thought you were a criminal. I thought you were just lying to me. But... you came to me about Milo, and left him to me even though he was in your city. You stepped in front of a bullet to save that man. You ignored your own injury to save my life. It doesn’t negate everything else you’ve done, but...

“Look. I don’t really know a lot about you. But I know that... killing can be necessary sometimes. It can be the lesser of two evils. And I think that you really do mean well. You really did care about those kids Araiza hurt, and the people who do get hurt by criminals. You wouldn’t have been so angry if you didn’t.

“You’ve done some bad things, and I hope you know that, but I shouldn’t have written you off like I did. And I shouldn’t have been such a jerk when you told me about Milo. I’m sorry."

Jason’s silent for a good minute. “... _what_?”

“I’m sorry. For thinking you were like that. And for acting like I did.”

“... are you for real?”

Connor looks vaguely confused. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Jason rolls his eyes.

“What?”

“You. I swear to God, you’re like the bastard child of a saint and a boy scout or something.”

The blonde blinks a few times. “... um. Thank you?”

“I mean it. You get a little snippy with me a few times, and you feel the need to go out of your way to save my ass and apologize? For God’s sake, Connor. I don’t give a shit that you got a stick up your ass about me shooting Araiza. I’m used to worse. Might even deserve half of it.”

Connor shrugs. “Well, I’m still sorry.”

Jason rolls his eyes again. “Whatever.”

They sit in silence for a few long moments.

“So what happens now?” Jason asks at last.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, what’s our next move?”

“‘Our’?”

“Well, you know, I was thinking this little rescue here meant something, but if you didn’t want in-”

“You can’t be serious. You know you’re not in any condition to fight.”

“So?”

“So just leave them to me. I promise, I’ll even rough them up extra for you.”

“No you won’t.”

“No, I won’t,” he agrees. “But still. I can handle this.”

“Just curious, are you saying this because you’re worried I’ll kill them?”

“Right now, I’m more worried about them killing you.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“But you don’t have to.”

“Why do you care so much about this?”

“Why are you so determined to be antagonistic?”

“Oh for fuck’s- it’s not like I’m going to go charging into battle when I can’t even walk, okay?”

“Okay.”

They sit in silence for a while longer.

“... I should get going,” Jason says. It feels oddly awkward- he can’t remember the last time he’s had to actually excuse himself from a conversation, outside of undercover shit. Of course, there he always had a role to fall back on.

He doesn’t really have one now.

"Are you going to be able to get around okay?"

Jason shrugs. "Got a couple safehouses near here. I'll be fine."

“Are you sure? I can give you a hand if you need.”

“Well gee, Connor. Aren’t I supposed to buy you dinner or something before inviting you back to my place?”

The blonde blinks. “Huh?”

Jason shakes his head. “Nevermind. Point is, I can make it back to my own place just fine.”

“All right,” Connor says, and that’s the end of it.

With difficulty, Jason pushes himself up, ignoring the protest from his leg. He can put some weight on it, at least.

“What floor are we on?”

“The first.”

“Well, that’ll make this easier.”

“Yeah.” Connor’s silent for a moment. “... see you around?”

Jason shrugs as best as he can with an arm against the wall. “Probably.”

“Are you _sure_ you don’t want a hand?”

“Positive.”

Connor gets the door for him anyways. Jason rolls his eyes, but doesn’t argue.

"You know,” he says suddenly as Jason’s half out into the hallway, “You remind me of someone."

"Who?"

"I have no idea."

*******

Jason's never really been one to leave well enough alone. It’s a habit that’s gotten him in trouble more than a few times. (It’s a habit that’s gotten him killed.)

Getting downtown with a busted leg is plenty doable. People do it every day. Hell, _he’s_ done it a few times before. Getting downtown inconspicuously with a busted leg and a bag of sniper equipment, though? Just a little harder. And getting up to the roof of a 20-story skyscraper with a busted leg, a bag of sniper equipment and a nigh pathological aversion to elevators? Damn near impossible.

He does it anyways. Never let it be said that he isn’t a stubborn bastard, or a creative one.

There’s a meeting here tonight, less than an hour’s time. He and Connor haven’t chatted much since their last encounter, but he knows the blonde’ll be here; his research methods are anything but subtle, if surprisingly effective- Jason would never have guessed he’d make it this far, at any rate. No stealth, no undercover work, no intimidation. Makes it plenty easy for any interested party to track him.

Not that the idiots trying to break into the Gotham underworld are any harder to research. Jason’s got a few files full of proof of that by his side, pictures and all. Headed by one Javier Schoepp, a former arms dealer with more ambition than sense, they’ve got maybe 20 members, and have been actively recruiting contacts for weeks now, seeing just how many pockets they can stick their hands into. It’s what this whole meeting is about. It’s why it’s the best target to crash.

A volley of arrows announces Connor’s arrival, and Jason awkwardly navigates into position. Showtime.

He doesn’t interfere immediately. Meant for direct combat, sniper support is not. No, it's called "backup" for a reason, and skilled as the other may be, Jason's got an odd feeling Connor'll need it.

It takes surprisingly long. The battle, he means. As seems to be in vogue nowadays, the higher-ups have hired a few low-level meta bruisers, nothing too special but enough to give the archer pause.

The fight’s pretty interesting to watch, actually. He’d known Connor was a damn good fighter from their earlier battles, but both times he’d been far too busy with his own part to really appreciate his form any. But now, with nothing to do but sit, wait and watch? He can see plenty.

And what there is to see. Connor’s got to be one of the best martial artists Jason’s ever seen, aside from Bruce and Shiva. Maybe not even that first one. If the blonde idiot wasn’t so damn determined not to hurt them too badly, he could’ve been done with this already, metas or no.

Why the hell does he even bother with a bow? He’s not nearly as good with it as he is with his fists. Maybe he was better before the coma.

Jason watches for a while longer, waiting. There’s a gun to Connor’s head. There’s a bullet through the bastard’s hand.

It’s not a rescue, exactly. Odd propensity for head trauma aside, Connor can take care of himself. But not everything is about obvious solutions.

The effect is almost immediate. For a fraction of a breath, no one moves, frozen by shock. Jason takes the opportunity to fire off another shot, this one embedding into the shoulder of another meta goon, and all at once, they spring into action. Some flee, scattering away from the scene in all directions. Jason mostly lets them go, except for a few shots at the ones most convenient. The small fry aren’t really important. The two remaining meta brutes, meanwhile, begin looking for the source of the shot, advancing in his general direction. Jason aims a warning shot at their feet.

Schoepp, to his credit, doesn’t run. Not exactly, anyways- he’s taken cover as best as he can behind a nearby crate, firing intermittent shots at Connor. Jason can’t really get a good shot from this angle, but he it doesn’t matter. He’s pinned there, exactly like he’d planned. He shifts his attention, keeping him in the corner of his eye.

As for the blonde? It doesn’t take him long to catch on. No sooner is the muscle distracted than Connor is on them, moving for a few quick pressure point strikes. The first one hits the ground hard; the second spins around in time, sending Connor flying a few feet. Jason aims a few shots at him, none quite hitting home as he keeps moving, following the archer. Connor’s back up again, of course, aiming yet more blows at the meta.

A bullet barely misses the side of the other vigilante’s head. A shot barely misses Schoepp’s arm, the only part exposed behind the crate. The thug cries out in pain as one of Connor’s strikes hits home. Connor grunts as one of the thug’s strikes meets him square in the ribs.

The meta moves in. Connor takes his legs out from under him. He’s close to Schoepp’s hiding spot now, close enough for the man to risk stepping out halfway for a better shot.

Jason takes his knee. The gang leader goes down with a shout. Connor, having just knocked out the remaining bodyguard, looks back in surprise.

Connor glances up at the rooftop. Jason gives a little wave.

It’s hard to tell, with the distance, but he thinks Connor’s lips twitch, just a little. He doesn’t complain as much as he’d expected, at any rate, the next time they meet up.

The guys would probably live, anyways.

*******

The fourth time, not even a month after the Bad News Crew gets taken down and Connor leaves, Jason isn’t making up excuses to visit. Really. He’s just investigating some possible ties between Gotham drug lord JohnnyManson and some supervillain wannabe in the Manhattan area, thinks Connor might want in, if he's in town already. Connor just smiles and makes them both tea, and Jason can't remember the last time he's felt this welcomed.

The lead turns out to be nothing, but Jason can't say he's much aggrieved.

The fifth time, he doesn’t even pretend the reasons aren’t excuses. The sixth time, he doesn’t even bother. It’s not like Connor asks for them, either, just sits down and fills Jason in on his recent travels like he's an old friend. Jason, in turn, keeps his sarcastic commentary to minimum. It's nice. It works.

And he just can't have that, can he? Which is why, shot number eleven, after a few months of occasional run-ins and sporadic visits characterised by tea and oddly amiable conversation, Jason just has to go and fuck the whole thing up.

Jason isn't really sure why he does it. Maybe he’s just looking to get a rise out of him. Maybe it’s just impulse. Maybe he actually wants it. Connor's lips are soft, and Jason can't seem to bring himself to pull away.

The other breaks the contact eventually, staring at Jason with surprise and confusion. Jason feels his chest tighten as he realizes what the hell he's just done. He starts to stand.

"Jason-"

"Don't."

"I-"

"Shut up." He does. "Don't get fucking sentimental or whatever. It didn't mean shit, Hawke. Just wanted to get a rise out of you."

He leaves before Connor can say a word. The archer doesn't try to follow.

*******

Jason's back in Gotham before the next sunrise, and back in the thick of trouble before the week's out. And for a few weeks, he stays that way, back to his old normal, and he's... fine. Really.

Until, of course, Connor shows up again, imposing himself in the middle of a shoot-out with a few pissed-off arms dealers and ever-so-helpfully "reminding" Jason not to kill them with a few well-timed arm grabs.Jason wants to slug him when the last one goes down, but the bastard interrupts him before he can do anything.

"I need your help."

*******

There’s been a series of bombings in Connor’s area of California, it seems. A variety of state buildings, but mostly courthouses. High body count, no known culprit, and no trail Connor can follow.

“Why come to me?”

“You’re good at finding people.”

“Not exactly a unique qualifier.”

“Yeah, but... guns and explosives and everything are kind of your thing.”

Jason stares at him for a few moments, then gives a loose shrug, holstering his gun absently. "When the hell do we leave?"

*******

The trip there is... unpleasant. Jason hates flying, and even the combination of first class seats and copious amounts of alcohol does little to alleviate the claustrophobia. Jason's just glad he managed the layovers, take it in stints. Connor keeps shooting him _looks_ , but at least he doesn't ask.

It's two days after arrival when Jason gets the lead. Connor'd been right to call him in- friend of a friend of a supplier of his later, he'd found the account used to purchase supplies, as well as the name of the bomber- Rachel Hayne, arsonist for hire. Jason doubts even Batman could've gotten the info faster, thank you very much.

Tracking her "patron" took a bit more legwork. The payments had been redirected about a dozen times, and Hayne herself was laying low nicely. Jason'd almost traced her last payment when Connor of all people showed up with the lead they needed.

(Connor never does say how he got the name, but a few weeks later, going back over the files for unrelated reasons, Jason will note with interest several old payments of Hayne’s to an account once associated with a certain Milo Armitage.)

(They'll make a detective out of him yet.)

His name is Paul Miller, an ex-member of the Golden Eagle Militia, a far right extremist group. Apparently, he’s got a bone to pick with the local government, nationalist bullshit or some such nonsense. Jason doesn’t particularly care about that. What he _does_ care about is where the hell the bastard is hiding, and where he’ll be striking next, and Jason’ll bet anything that his old Eagle buddies have a pretty good idea.

Connor, of course, is along for the ride. Jason doesn’t even bother to protest, watching the scene intently as Connor crouches by his side.

They don’t talk, of course. They haven’t, really, since Connor had called him in, except for stuff related to the case.

It’s smarter to sit in silence.

Not, apparently, that it stops them being detected. Jason’d blame Connor for insisting on tagging along, except he really doubts it’d have gone any better if it was just him, considering. He doubts the deceptively stable-looking ledge would have held his weight alone for much longer. Fucking rookie mistake, how had he missed that crack? Those stress lines? The building the Eagles had chosen was hardly in prime condition.

Didn’t skimp on the armory, though, Jason muses idly, lying in a heap with Connor and staring at about a dozen rifles trained on the two of them. Excellent selection.

They roll apart in unison as the bullets begin to fly, diving momentarily for cover.

"Don't kill them!" Connor calls above the noise.

"Are you f- they're shooting at us!"

"Not very well!" Connor springs into action before he can respond, and, gritting his teeth, Jason follows suit.

None of the shots are fatal. It’s nothing to do with Connor, of course; he would have left them alive even without the blonde here. He just needs some to interrogate.

That’s all.

*******

Armament aside, the Eagles are no fighters. Several broken bones and a few bullet holes later, the men become a lot more willing to talk.

As it turns out, Miller is a lot less “ex” than the group would have everyone believe. They’ve been feeding him funds, offering him shelter.

“He’s actually _doing_ something about these tyrants. Taking back our fucking country.”

“He’s killing innocent people,” Connor says. “Civilians.”

“Conspirators, sheep,” the man replies.

“A few kids,” Jason adds darkly. “You think those courthouses you-” Connor grabs his arm abruptly, shooting him a warning look, and Jason notices the gun in his own hand.

“We need him,” the other man says simply, before releasing his arm. Jason shrugs and reholsters the pistol. Connor turns to their current subject of interrogation. “Innocent people,” he reiterates.

The man shrugs. “You wanna make an omelette...”

Jason drives a foot into his jaw, hard enough to hear something snap. Connor doesn’t stop him.

“What’s the next target?”

*******

Every now and again, a basic recon mission turns into a race against the clock.

(There’s something entirely too familiar about it.)

The plan, apparently, is to take down the Wickersham Federal Building, big climax to the chain of bombings so far. Middle of operation hours, plenty of spectacle, plenty of people inside. Wickersham is, on a good traffic day, a 20-minute drive away. The bomb is set to go off in 15.

Twelve minutes and a shattered speed limit later, they make it into the building. Connor yells over the wind into a cellphone on the way, doing his best to warn of the threat, and the police are waiting when they arrive, arranged in a cordon around the building.

Jason knows a hostage situation when he sees one.

“Do you think we can get in?” Connor asks.

“Getting in’s the easy part,” Jason responds.

He’s downplaying things a bit, of course- getting in takes more than a bit of doing. With both the police and Miller and whatever allies he’s got with him watching the entrances, they can’t exactly just waltz in the front doors.

Of course, neither could Miller and his men. Jason and Connor go in the same way they did, dodging cops and slipping into the basement through the hole where an air conditioner once was. There are guards, of course, two men wielding semis, but that’s no real problem for the two of them. No shots, quick knockouts, can’t alert the others. Connor binds and gags them while Jason scopes out the situation.

“Sounds like they’ve got the hostages above,” he says quietly, scanning the room.

“And the bomb?”

“There,” Jason says, spotting the device in the corner. He walks over to it carefully. “Looks like it’s remote detonation. No timer I can see.”

“Can you disarm it?”

(He wants to laugh.)

“I’ll try.” He glances at the pile of wiring. “It won’t set off without their say so. Go try to cut them off. I’ll see what I can take out.”

Connor doesn’t even protest before he takes off running.

(He hasn’t had the best luck with explosions.)

The bomb’s professional quality work. Hayne knows her stuff, he muses. False leads, backups, temperature sensors, coupla anti-handling devices, the whole works. Jason couldn’t have done it better himself.

(Not that he’d ever have picked this target. Ideology aside, he doesn’t do collateral damage.)

He hadn’t really planned on disarming a bomb today, but, hey, he can improvise. He works slowly, tracing wires and carefully removing fuses while ignoring the sounds of combat beginning above him. Connor can handle himself. This is the time to focus.

He removes the receiver as soon as he’s sure the traps are disabled, popping out the connectors and removing the battery for good measure. All else fails, the first signal won’t set anything off if they try it. He considers leaving it at that, loath to risk accidental detonation, but it’s entirely possible there’s a backup receiver here, or a failsafe timer.

The sounds of combat amplify, bullets and screaming. Jason grits his teeth, carefully pushing aside the tangled mess of wires. He finds the first cache, the second, the third, cracking the containers and pulling the wires from the Semtex within.

(He prefers C4, himself.)

The sound of running. Fourth cache. Angry shouting, gunfire. Jason can find no more, but he removes the blasting cap anyways, just to be safe. Neutralized. Jason breathes a sigh of relief, pushing himself up.

The crash of splintering wood sends him diving for cover without even a backwards glance. He can see remnants of the door now from his new position, see the blonde picking himself up awkwardly from the pile of splinters, lurching to his feet and away from the spray of gunfire at his heels. His attackers, apparently two of Miller’s subordinates, chase after him, bullets ricocheting around the room, sending Jason back behind his cover and Connor diving to the side. It’s not long before he’s returning fire, gesturing wildly for Connor to fucking get over here while he covers him. For once, the archer takes the hint, diving low and rolling over to Jason’s position.

“Hostages?” he asks the man as he arrives, ducking momentarily back behind the desk.

“Still there. No one’s hurt. Two more guards, plus Hayne and Miller. Bomb?”

“Disarmed. Doesn’t do us much good.”

“Still something.”

Jason doesn’t respond to that, simply readying his gun and returning fire once more.

For an eternity it’s stalemate, the two parties trading fire fruitlessly, pistols against semis. Jason doesn’t even bother reloading at first, just dropping each handgun as it runs out of bullets, then swapping out prepped cartridges when he runs out of spare guns.

It isn’t until he reaches for his next cartridge and finds none that he begins to realize just how much fire he’d traded over the course of the day so far.

“Fuck,” he says quietly, hardly audible over the ring of gunfire.

“What?”

“Low ammo,” he says, trying to be loud enough for Connor to hear but quiet enough that their attackers _don’t_.

“ _What_ <e/m>?” Connor asks back disbelievingly. His incredulity is understandable- Jason’s a walking armory at the worst of times- but back-to-back firefights had apparently depleted all that he had that was readily accessible pretty damn effectively. He’s not _completely_ out, of course, not by a long shot, but the rest of it is in hidden pockets, individual, uncartridged bullets that will take more time than they have to dig out. Right now, his return fire is all that’s keeping the others from advancing. They get through that doorway with them pinned here while he’s stuck reloading, and their cover will become completely useless damn soon.

 _Fuck_.

The gunfire dies down. Jason braves a glance at the doorway before turning to Connor.

“Split up,” Jason says.

“What?”

“Split up. They’re going to come in the door, can’t get to us where they are. We’ll try to force close-range. Count of three.”

One. They peer cautiously from behind the door, confirming the lack of return fire.

Two. Farther now, stupidly far, daring him to shoot. He has maybe a cartridge left accessible, he could take the shot, but he knows it won’t do anything. They’ll dive back in time.

Three. Charging the door, guns raised. “Now!”

They run. Jason slides his remaining pistol into his belt as he moves, knife spinning into his hand as he makes a grab for one of the thugs’ semi, seizing the barrel with both hands. He’s lucky to have managed to grab from the side- the other man trips the trigger as they struggle, bullets spraying wildly. Jason can’t wrest the weapon away, and settles for popping the cartridge, letting it fall to the floor and sending it scattering wildly with a sweep of his foot. Realizing this, his opponent releases the gun with a shove, forcing Jason to waste precious seconds rebalancing himself and leave himself vulnerable to the punch to his stomach. He steps back carefully, ignoring the sounds of Connor’s battle in the background and doing his best to stay out of range while he regains his breath.

(The helmet is too cramped.)

His opponent forces him back across the room, away from Connor’s battle. Jason doesn’t take the defensive long and, knife spinning into his hand, he darts under the next blow to aim a slash at his opponent’s chest. It’s the other’s turn to stagger back now, a thin line of red visible on his shirt, and he deflects Jason’s follow-up with one hand while fumbling at his side for... something. Jason can’t quite see, sidestepping the counterattack while slashing at any part of his opponent he can reach. It’s a battle of attrition with knife fights like this sometimes, he knows, when you can’t get a good solid strike in and just have to make your opponent bleed until they collapse. He can outlast this guy.

Except his next attack is countered with a streak of silver, and Jason can’t help but stumble as he steps back from the weapon.

Length of pipe, he has time to register, before his opponent takes advantage of Jason’s distraction, and reality begins to dissolve around him.

First blow. There’s no pain, the force distributed neatly across the front of his helmet, jerking his head back and echoing loudly in the enclosed space. Second blow, too soon for him to react. He can see it coming, same place as the last, and he hears the helmet crack. Third blow, slow, so slow, freezing him in place, and the helmet _shatters_ , shards cascading from the point of impact, the remaining halves falling to the ground, and the _crowbar_ pipe _crowbar_ does not stop.

(He can’t move.)

There’s a sharp, stinging pain, the crack of the bar against his skull. At last, he jerks back clumsily, one eye blinded by the blood streaming down from his forehead. He raises one arm protectively, another hand covering the wound. He can hear combat, the thud of blows against flesh, the sound of cracking bones and _painstaticlaughter_ , and he backs up sightlessly until he meets the wall, head spinning, face drenched in warm, sticky red.

(He can’t do this again.)

The noises stop briefly, echoing inside his head, and then there’s a hand on his shoulder, a wordless voice. Jason lashes out instinctively at his assailant, striking again and again, the crowbar flashing behind his eyes (Jason), and he’s not really entirely sure how he winds up pinned against the wall (Jason, it’s me), struggling, arms held fast behind his back. (Jason!)

Stop.

The hold releases abruptly, and Jason spins around, lashing out to meet nothing but air, before letting himself sink to the ground, hand flying back to stem the bleeding.

“Are you all right?” he hears, the voice coming as through water, and the words do not come. Connor steps closer hesitantly, then kneels. “Let me see?” He pulls Jason’s hand away gently, examining the wound. “This doesn’t look so bad. Can you follow my finger with your eyes?”

He can.

“It doesn’t look like anything serious. I-”

Noise. It takes Jason a few moments to identify the voices, amplified and echoing oddly. Police.

Their opponents are lying on the floor, bound and unconscious. Jason wonders when that had happened.

“We should go.” Jason blinks at the hand on his arm, pulling him up gently. “Jason, come on.” He follows mutely, and they stumble out the way they came in, dodging into the shadows to avoid the rush of uniformed officers. Connor doesn’t let him drive, not that he does a better job than even Jason’d do in this state, but he doesn’t protest.

Jason takes off the moment they get back to their hotel, pushing Connor away and heading to the roof. The blonde opens his mouth to ask, confused, but Jason does not stop.

He needs air.

He wipes the blood from his face, pulls off his gloves to probe the area delicately. The wound is shallow, harmless, a superficial gash not even remotely debilitating, and it’d taken him out of the fight completely.

Jason fucking hates himself.

The door creaks as it opens, and he doesn’t even have to look to know who it is. Jason doesn’t want to talk to him.

The blonde cannot take a fucking hint. “Are you all right?”

Jason doesn’t answer, staring moodily out at the city below. San Francisco is both exactly and nothing like Gotham, docks and traffic and towering skyscrapers.

“Jason?”

“Fine.”

“Right.” Connor walks to stand next to him, leaning against the low wall and following his line of sight. “We got them, you know.”

“I know. All _secure_ in police custody.”

“You sound disappointed.”

“Kids died in those bombings. I’d have put a bullet in them all I had half a chance.”

“They’re not going to get away with it. The police have everything they need.”

“Whatever.”

All is silent for a few moments, the two staring pensively at the traffic below.

“Thank you, you know,” Connor says at last. “For coming all the way out here to help me. I know you don’t like flying.”

“Whatever,” he repeats, not looking at the other man. He hears Connor inhale deeply.

“... you know... about what happened... the last time we met, before all this-”

“I don’t want to talk about this,” Jason snaps, pushing himself away from the wall and turning to leave.

"Jason, wait," he hears, and turns, frustrated and humiliated and a million other things at once.

"The hell do you want n-"

He doesn't expect the kiss, sudden but gentle, slow and lingering.

Connor's lips are still soft.

Once again, Connor is the first to pull away, a small smile touching the edges of his lips. Jason, for once, is speechless, mouth opening and closing in mute imitation of words. Connor turns and starts for the stairs.

"Are you coming?" he asks over his shoulder. Jason gapes in stunned silence for a handful of seconds. Then, all at once, he moves, scrambling to catch up.

Not even a week later, Connor leaves to continue his trip, leaves like he always does. But this time, Jason is with him.

He was getting sick of Gotham, anyways.


End file.
